To Stalk a Dear With a Hat
by emelierose
Summary: The infamous deerstalker makes an appearance. (The only way it's a death-Frisbee in this is if it's death by fluff.)


John stood in the kitchen, trying to get a sleepy Hamish to finish his breakfast more quickly and listening to Sherlock talk to himself as he tossed article of clothing after article of clothing from their wardrobe. They had a case on and the consulting detective was in the process of finding the perfect character to portray. "And probably finding Narnia in the process," John muttered, wiping the counters clean from the jam that had somehow gotten everywhere.

"Narnia?" asked a curious Hamish, chewing on his last bite of toast.

"I'll read to you about it when you're a bit older, H. And don't talk with your mouth full." John admonished with a smile.

"'Kay," replied Hamish as he hopped off of his chair, "Am I going to Mrs. Hudson's now?"

"As soon as your Father decides on what to wear." Hamish nodded and went to go wait by the door to the stairs.

In the bedroom Sherlock was putting on the last touches of his ensemble, making a mental note to clean up everything later before John had to remind him. What he didn't realise was that his deerstalker, having been shoved in the back of the wardrobe a long time ago, had been in the flurry of material he had thrown about and had ended up beneath the bed, its flaps helping it fly much farther than Sherlock would ever look in an effort to clean up.

* * *

A few months later Sherlock was at home with Hamish while John had a shift at the surgery. The two curly-headed charges of John had decided that this rainy day was the perfect day to have a game of Hide 'N' Seek ("It helps build good deduction skills when he's looking for either me or a hiding place, and it teaches him the best types of places to hide, John" "Sherlock, you really don't have to justify it to me," John had replied, trying not to grin at Sherlock's horrible attempt to explain being found in the shower, "Just make sure he can't get into any dangerous experiments."). The three year old ("three and one half!") had gotten very good at staying absolutely still while he tracked his Father's movement by listening for the slightest noises. He had also figured out places he could go that would be hidden because of his Father's height.

But today was new. Today they had decided to include the bedrooms in their game. For the first few rounds Hamish stayed clear of them, thinking it would be too much of a giveaway if he went directly for the new spaces. But slowly they both ventured out and found new places to conceal themselves and new crevasses to look in.

And so Hamish found himself hiding under his parents' bed. He had often snuggled in with them on cold nights or nights when he could tell that they had just finished a tough case. But underneath was completely new, and it was perfect for hiding. Silently he wiggled behind a small pile of papers and under an old jumper, and then he waited. He could hear his Father's almost inaudible footsteps on the stairs to his room and he allowed himself a quiet giggle. _Father should know that I would never go to my own space_, he thought. _That would be too easy_.

Knowing that Sherlock would probably do a methodical search of the flat from top to bottom, Hamish looked at his surroundings, content with just observing his parents' room from a new angle. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a lump about two feet to his right. Carefully, not wanting to do anything that would alert his Father as to his whereabouts, he reached out and stretched until he could grasp it in his small hand. It was soft, most likely an article of clothing. Pulling it closer Hamish could see a pattern in the dark brown fabric. He studied the cross-crossing of the different shades and remembered that the pattern was called plaid. Turning it around in his hands- ears still listening for an approaching consulting detective, of course- he studied the flaps. A hat, he thought. A hat with flaps. Perhaps for keeping the wearer's ears warm! Hamish quietly put the hat on and pulled the flaps down. Immediately he pushed them back up. He could see why they would be good on a cold walk, but they were exactly what he didn't need while he was listening for his Father. The hat itself didn't seem to hurt his listening, though, so Hamish kept the hat on and waited for his seeker to find him.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sherlock quietly walked into his and John's room. He hadn't thought that Hamish would go to his own room since it would be the first place an actual attacker would look, but he had still gone there first and worked his way down the flat, just so Hamish couldn't sneak up there half way through the game. He loved how smart his son was, but it was never fun to realise that he had slipped into a spot that Sherlock had already searched.

So now he had just this room left. Closing the door in case Hamish tried to be his usual Hobbit-like self (Hamish's description, not Sherlock's. Ever since they read him that book he liked to think he was as quiet as the supposed "burglar.") Surveying the room, Sherlock deduced all the possible places for Hamish to hide. Wardrobe, bed, desk…bed. To hide underneath it would put him near to the ground, which Hamish knew would be hard for him to see. It also would be likely to have things to hide behind because he and John had never kept the cleanest house. As soundlessly as he could, Sherlock sunk to his knees by the bed and moved very slowly, as to not let Hamish know he was about to reach for him.

Underneath, Hamish breathed as quietly as he knew how. He could see his Father's shadow move and could tell that he had properly deduced his position. Knowing that the door would be closed, Hamish knew his choice was to evade his Father's grasp as long as possible or be subject to a tickle fight. Getting ready to run as soon as he cleared the bed, he slowly moved backwards towards the other side.

As soon as Hamish started moving more quickly, Sherlock lunged under the bed and carefully caught onto Hamish's arm. Hamish squealed, having not taken into account the stuff he might encounter behind him that stopped his escape. His Father pulled him out from under the bed, both of them grinning. Hamish squirmed, trying to break free, but Sherlock just pulled him closer and wrapped him in a hug.

"I got you, little one. You know you can't get…What are you wearing?" Sherlock's hold on Hamish loosened slightly and Hamish thought about wriggling away, but stopped when he saw his Father's confused expression.

"A hat."

"Yes, I can see that." Sherlock smiled, knowing that his obvious question had deserved such an obvious answer. "Was it under the bed?"

"Ya. It has flaps!" Hamish pulled them down, no longer worried about listening for Sherlock. Sherlock laughed softly at the sight of Hamish in the too big flaps.

"It's called a deerstalker."

"So I should always wear it when I look for you?" inquired Hamish, playing with the ties of the hat.

"Why is that, H?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows slightly drawn together as he tried to follow the reasoning.

"Because you said stalking is another word for following, so when I'm looking for where you went I'm stalking my dear Father." Hamish explained, and Sherlock could hear the eye-roll in his words. Hamish still didn't get how his Father could be so smart one moment and then know nothing the next.

Sherlock didn't have the heart to correct the small boy's logic, so he just hugged him tighter and said, "of course you can always wear it when you look for me."

* * *

A/N: Finals Week has arrived. If any of you are in that situation as well, may you have the memory of a Holmes and the patience of a Watson.


End file.
